


from the dark and wetted soil

by rockinhamburger



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: And so much love, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, negative self-talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinhamburger/pseuds/rockinhamburger
Summary: Prompt: Patrick has Seasonal Affective Disorder. David helps.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 58
Kudos: 166
Collections: Schitt's Creek: Frozen Over (2020)





	from the dark and wetted soil

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver2020) collection. 



> Hello! This is a story about Patrick coping with Seasonal Affective Disorder and depression, and a story about David helping and supporting him in the ways he can. You might feel like this exploration into that head space and situation is not what's best for you at the moment. Please take care of yourself however you need to <3
> 
> Anonymous friend, I could not resist your prompt; it told a story on its own. I hope this is along the lines of what you were looking for and that it provides some warm comfort.
> 
> And if you're reading this, I'm sending you springtime warmth and love. Stay safe.

The first sign that something is off is that Patrick hasn’t gotten out of bed when David leaves for work. Even on Patrick’s days off, he frequently rises with the sun, to David’s continued incredulity.

David says goodbye before he leaves, planting a kiss on Patrick’s forehead to surreptitiously check his temperature. No fever. Patrick gives David’s hand a faint squeeze and rolls over to go back to sleep. David brushes it off; god knows Patrick deserves to sleep in.

The first sign that something is _very_ off is that Patrick is still in bed when David circles back to the house around lunch time to get his phone charger. The married-couple-argument David was already having in his head with Patrick is abruptly halted.

(Patrick will disapprove of David’s decision to put the _Back in 15 minutes_ sign on the door, which Patrick agreed to have on-hand only for emergencies; he knows exactly what Patrick will think of David’s phone charger emergency.)

David ventures into their bedroom, where the drapes are still closed and their bed remains shrouded in daylight darkness. David sits down on the edge of the bed and puts his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, gently shaking him awake. “Honey?”

Patrick exhales heavily and blinks his eyes open. “What time is it?” The words are slurred together.

David braces himself for a lecture. “Just after noon,” he says, grimacing. “I forgot my charger.”

Patrick nods and closes his eyes, and David feels a strong twinge of alarm rise up. Patrick is not one to miss a chance to roast David. “Are you feeling okay?” he asks.

Patrick’s shoulder muscles tense under David’s hand. He opens his eyes again, not meeting David’s gaze. “I’m fine. Just need a bit more sleep.”

“Okay,” David says. He kisses Patrick and stands. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Text me if you need anything.”

Patrick doesn’t answer; he’s already asleep.

David goes back to their store, completely calm and not at all freaking out about the fact that Patrick definitely dodged his question and gave a cursory answer. He tries not to think about what it means that Patrick’s not being forthcoming, tries to keep at bay the memories of the other times Patrick has kept something from David.

***

It always starts when the clocks change. Patrick’s never been able to figure out why it comes on so suddenly, when the days have been getting shorter and the darkness hanging on long before that official milestone. But it’s like, well, clockwork.

He’s never told anyone apart from his college roommate, Stephen. The depression had shown its full face for the first time during his second year of university. For nearly two weeks halfway through the fall semester, he could barely get out of bed. He left his dorm room for meals, but stopped going to classes and turning in assignments.

Eventually, Stephen sat down at Patrick’s desk, looked at Patrick and the depression nest that had formed in his bed, and started talking.

“When I was 12, my dad went through a rough patch,” Stephen said, studying the wood of Patrick’s desk. “He lost his job. I can’t remember how long it was, but there was a while where he just couldn’t get out of bed. We ended up staying with our aunt.” He shrugged. “Just thought… I don’t know what’s going on for you, but yeah. If you ever need to talk or…” Stephen trailed off, fingers running over the groove of the carving a past student had made in the desk.

Patrick cleared the lump that had formed in his throat. “Thanks, man.”

Patrick made an appointment with the mental health services department of his school that same day. Subsequently, he got an official diagnosis and started seeing a therapist to develop strategies to cope with his Seasonal Affective Disorder. Through discussion with his therapist, Patrick worked out how it first emerged.

It didn’t _start_ with the **B-** he got on his Econ midterm; that was just a trigger for what was already there. Fall had been a difficult season for him even as a teenager, but he’d never had an explanation for it so he’d always assumed he just needed to push himself a little harder. The **B-** had shaken his confidence. He wanted to be perfect because perfection meant safety and independence and opportunity, so getting perfect grades was a manifestation of that. His therapist helped him to trace back some of these core beliefs and to reframe the intrusive, depressing thoughts that would overtake him.

_You’re bothering everyone. Don’t add to their stress. Pull it together. People are relying on you. Why are you so bad at everything? You can’t even get out of bed; get going, you lazy—_

Patrick doesn’t want to think about why his depression is resurfacing again when he just got married and he’s never been happier in his life. It hasn’t been a problem for him since he moved to Schitt’s Creek. And it’s not like he thought he was cured; that’s not a thing, but the fact that it’s flaring up now certainly feels like a _thing._

He hears David leaving and the horrible guilt that bubbles up makes the invasive thoughts all the more convincing.

_You’re lying to him. Again. You’re bothering him. You’re making him worry about you. Get out of bed. Get up before he realizes what a stupid, incompetent—_

Patrick crawls back under the covers to silence the thoughts. It doesn’t work.

He’s still in bed when David gets home. He’s not even sleeping at this point, just laying there like a useless lump.

“Patrick?” David calls from the doorway. He sounds so worried. Patrick opens eyes that feel like lead, aching to his core with shame and guilt that he still hasn’t managed to do a single thing today.

“Hey,” he mumbles.

***

“Hey. Have you been here all day?” David asks, trying to rein in his anxiety. Patrick obviously needs him to stay calm and not be a total basket case right now. “Have you eaten today?” Patrick doesn’t reply immediately. It looks like he’s trying to decide how to answer, and that more than anything makes David lose his barely preserved composure. “Kind of looks like you’re trying to figure out what would be the best answer instead of giving me your actual answer, Patrick.” David’s words are sharper than he intended.

Patrick shoves his face into a pillow, and David crosses quickly to the bed and sits down. “Okay, what can I do?” David asks, gentling his tone and rubbing Patrick’s back in apology. “Let me help.”

But Patrick sits up. “I’m okay. I just needed to rest. I’ll get in the shower. Should help.”

With what looks a Herculean effort, Patrick heaves himself out of bed and goes to the bathroom without looking back. David watches him go and spends approximately four minutes spiralling before he makes an executive decision.

***

The shower helps. He still feels like crap, but his skin is clean. He changes into fresh clothes, a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. He tells himself he’s going to the kitchen to find something to eat, even though he is not remotely hungry, but then he just gets back into bed. He hates this. He’s only going to worry David even more and make it even more necessary to either tell David or continue lying like a dishonest liar.

_Maybe you should tell him._

But more thoughts swarm in to counter that one.

_Don’t bother him with this. He’s going to think you’re not happy to be married to him. And you should be happy! You’re messing this up. He’s going to leave you. Get it together. You should be over the moon that you landed someone like that and instead you’re laying in bed like a stupid, lazy asshole._

David comes in some time later with soup, as well as flushed cheeks and cool hands that suggest he’s gone out somewhere. He has a reusable shopping bag on his shoulder, which he sets down silently on the rug beside the bed after handing Patrick the soup. Patrick sits up against the headboard and eats some; apparently he’s hungry after all.

David gets into bed next to him, leaning against the headboard and putting a comfortingly weighted hand on Patrick’s knee. He clears his throat. “Do you think my husband might be ready to tell me what’s actually going on?”

Hating himself, Patrick avoids David’s gaze. “I just get like this sometimes. Tired. I’ll be…” He swallows thickly. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

David’s eyebrows furrow. “You get like this sometimes?” he repeats flatly. “Mhmm. And by ‘like this’, you mean depressed?”

Patrick jolts, and the soup sloshes dangerously in the bowl. “What?” he says. He puts the bowl of soup on the side table, shifting uncomfortably. “I - I don’t—I’m not—”

“Patrick,” David says firmly. “You do not have to hide this from me. Please don’t hide this from me.” Something about his firm tone coupled with his gentle hand on Patrick’s knee actually calms Patrick a little bit, makes his tensed muscles relax. And suddenly there are tears blurring his vision, making his throat feel coarse and thick.

The thoughts press in on him. _Don’t burden him with this. You should be able to handle this on your own._

_But I don’t_ have _to handle this on my own._

He speaks slowly, head bowed to spare himself whatever might be on David’s face. “It started when I was a kid, I guess, looking back.” David doesn’t say anything, just rubs his thumb over Patrick’s kneecap, so Patrick fills in the silence. “Fall would come around, and I—I’d just feel sad all the time. It got worse in high school, but I didn’t understand why.” He struggles with himself for a moment, and then he finally says it. “I have Seasonal Affective Disorder. I was diagnosed in college. I’ve never told anyone apart from my college roommate.”

“Okay. That must have been hard to carry alone.” David’s hand moves to lace their fingers together; Patrick returns the grip immediately. “Don’t you know you can tell me these things? Do you think I would ever judge you for this?” he asks softly.

“No, not normally,” Patrick mumbles. “But it’s hard to think clearly when I’m like this. The thoughts can be very persuasive.”

“Right, that’s understandable. But the thing is,” David says, voice firm again, “depression is a liar.”

Patrick feels the truth of that in his soul. It cracks through the haze and makes him laugh. “Okay, yeah. It really is.”

David cups Patrick’s hand in both of his. “I brought you something. Besides the canned soup, I mean.”

“Hmmm?”

David gets up again and brings the shopping bag Patrick’s already forgotten about in the emotion of the last few minutes. He hands it to Patrick, who finds it has a surprising heft to it, and sits down beside Patrick again.

Inside is a box, and Patrick pulls it out to discover it’s a sun lamp.

Patrick bites his trembling lip. “You—” He can’t speak.

“It’s no big deal,” David says, shrugging. “I asked around, said it was for me. Ronnie had an extra one in her garage - apparently the place she ordered from sent two by accident.”

Patrick can’t speak.

“Also?” David says, poking Patrick’s hip. “What is the point of being married if not for us to help each other carry this stuff? You married me despite… well, _everything._ Somehow you decided I’m not too much for you even though I am too much for basically every single human. I don’t know why, but for some reason you love me, right?”

Patrick’s chest heaves. “I love you so much, David. So much. You’re—you’re so—”

“Well, I love you more than I thought it was possible to love a person. You are kind and thoughtful and intelligent, and I’m incredibly lucky you decided you wanted to marry _this_.” David gestures to himself with a contempt that makes Patrick’s chest ache. “Patrick, you deserve love even when you think you don’t.”

Patrick loses the very last of the threadbare restraint on his emotions.

***

David’s never seen Patrick cry like this. Patrick tries to pull away, clearly embarrassed, but David moves in close so he can kiss Patrick’s cheeks, wet with tears, and stroke Patrick’s heaving back. “I’m here, okay?” he says soothingly. “I’m sorry you’re struggling.”

“I’m not,” Patrick says through hitched sobs. “I _was_ struggling, but. But now—” He wipes his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his sweater. David makes an exaggeratedly disgusted sound because he knows it’ll make Patrick laugh, and sure enough Patrick snorts. Patrick’s smiling now, and he seems to be taking more even breaths. “Now I’m not. Because I have the best husband.”

“Have to disagree with you there. _I_ have the best husband, actually.” David smirks, hoping to pull a smile out of his husband. The corner of Patrick’s mouth turns up.

“How did you know?” Patrick asks.

David pulls Patrick in so he can rest his head on David’s shoulder. “I know what depression looks like,” David says simply. It’s easier to admit than it would have been even a few months ago. Something about being married has brought on a sense of calm. He knows now that Patrick won’t think less of him or his family; in fact, he opted in. David sits with the security of that for a moment, and then he elaborates.

“You saw my mom’s retreat to the motel closet in July. That wasn’t a one-time thing. Far from it. There was a stretch before we lost our money where my mother basically lived in the closet for a month. And when she finally came out, it was only with the aid of several _very_ strong uppers. My family even had a little scoring system to work out how bad a closet trip was. Alexis and I would trade off who dealt with her when my dad couldn’t because of work.” David squirms for a second, but charges on, determined to help Patrick. “And, you know, these things can be… not hereditary exactly, but let’s just say I’ve had my own version of the depression closet from time to time. I mean, you know about the mall pretzels.”

“I do know about the mall pretzels.” Patrick’s hand climbs up to stroke over the hairs on David’s neck, and David shivers and moves closer.

“I didn’t know it was Seasonal Affective Disorder specifically,” David clarifies. “I just… I had a feeling a sun lamp would help. You know, with daylight savings and all.”

***

Patrick is once again struck speechless. This man. How is it that David sees him so clearly? When no one else ever has? He finds he can only say, “Thank you, David.” If he says anything else, he’s going to start sobbing again.

“If you really want to thank me, you’ll finish that soup,” David replies. Then he taps the sun lamp box with his hand. “Now, let’s get this thing fired up. I’ll get the extension cord.”

Patrick smiles through his joyful tears. “In a second. I have to kiss my husband.”

David makes a long-suffering sound. “If you must.”

Patrick nods gravely. “I must,” he says, and kisses his husband.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Thanks to Distractive and ICMezzo for organizing this fest!
> 
> My eternal and never-enough thanks goes to musictoyourlips for the very short-notice beta work. Thank you for wanting to read my stories and for your friendship.
> 
> Thanks to likerealpeopledo for brainstorming with me early on. I must also express my heartfelt thanks to fishyspots for providing lovely validation and whose vital suggestion helped crack my writer's block. I truly do not believe I would have finished this story without that, so thank you!
> 
> In general, I was very worried that this wasn't going to come together in time, so sincere thanks to stillicide_snow, swat117, MoreHuman, Distractivate, and likerealpeopledo, with whom I could commiserate about writing woes. You're all real ones!
> 
> Title is from Donovan's Lullaby for the Spring.


End file.
